


shadow of a shadow

by teavious



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teavious/pseuds/teavious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murtagh and how he grew up, how he lost and tried to find himself, how he failed and tried again and again until he finally did it right. Murtagh and how he grew as a person.<br/>Murtagh and the precious people to him, those who changed something and made him who he is. Murtagh and his pains, his life and what influenced it enough to leave a mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shadow of a shadow

The nurse is in a bad mood again. Murtagh sits in his hiding place, still, while she trashes around, searching for him and swearing when she trips over various things. Then he hears a squeaking noise, as the nurse sits on the bed, and she sighs.

“Child, your mother is here to see you.”

He is young, but he is no fool. He doesn’t come out until there’s no sound of the nurse left in the room, and only then does he push the door of the dresser and comes out, hurrying down the stairs of the castle and falling into the arms of his mother. She was waiting for him, crouched down and arms wide spread, and she laughs softly as he nuzzles his face in the crook of her neck. Selena’s hand ruffles his long hair, and when she speaks, her voice cuts.

“I thought I told you to give him a haircut every month.”

The nurse shudders and Murtagh dares to smile, hidden in his mother’s hair, happy that, with her here, bad things won’t happen to him. He reluctantly lets go, lacing his fingers with his mother’s, and with the sun shining all around her, she becomes his god. They walk around the garden, Murtagh’s mouth almost unable to keep up with how fast he wants to share all his brave tales: fighting the cat, hunting for butterflies. He never speaks of his father’s visits, of the bruises on his body from the shoves and harsh training he’s already receiving, but his mother knows and her palms on his face are cold and soothing.

She never fails to remind him he was a wanted a child. With him in her arms, Murtagh able to hear her heart beating under his cheek, she repeats those words over and over, kissing his forehead, the top of his head, his nose, every inch of his face she can. Because she loved his father so much that she gave herself away to darkness, because even in her best hours she won’t be able to regret staying by Morzan’s side, if it means having him.

“Murtagh…” Selena sighs, and in her tone he makes out something he doesn’t really understand. He waits, seeing if she has something more to say, while she caresses his head, looking at him, but not really seeing him. “You’re the strongest boy I’ve ever known.”

He knows it’s something to be proud of, he heard the stories of his mother’s doings, spoken in whispers and fear, and it feels like he’s truly the son of two of the strongest people in the kingdom.

When his mother leaves that time, her kisses are pressed with more force on his cheek than usual, her eyes frantically searching for something that Murtagh isn’t sure he knows how to give.

“Remember what I told you, my beloved one.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper, and he nods like a good little boy. With a sharp look at the nurse, Selena turns on her heels, her goodbye sounding like an eternal rupture.

Murtagh never saw her again.

*******

Murtagh is afraid of his father. He is afraid of what he can do, and he’s terrified of what he did. He is trying his best to tiptoe around him, trying to read his moods so the worst has already passed. But he knows that when he is called, he has to appear, because no one disobeys the strongest Forsworn and gets to do it again, not even his own son.

So when Morzan stumbles into the room, cup of alcohol in one hand, his sword lazily swaying in the other, Murtagh’s instincts scream at him to run and hide, but he’s young and he finally managed to hit a target in archery practice and he wants to share his success, to earn a praise. But when he wants to open his mouth, to step nearer to his father, a stream of words come out of his mouth. Some Murtagh recognizes, slurs that are thrown his way when he knows he did something _real_ bad, some he doesn’t, and what freezes him in his spot is that they all accompany his mother’s name and _it just doesn’t make sense_.

Maybe it is his fault for stopping like that, giving his father the chance to actually notice him, or maybe it is just bad timing and too much alcohol. But just his mere presence makes his father go over the edge, and in the next moment everything a child of three knows is pain. It’s eating him alive, biting at his flesh and stopping his breath before it reaches his lungs. His hands twitch, and it feels like he’s a fish trying to survive on earth.

When darkness comes over him, he’s actually glad that the pain is starting to fade.

*******

He sits on one side of the bed, legs crossed, his eyes glued on the tall man at the entrance of the room. The magician is telling him something about his wound, how it will hurt from time to time and how a scar is adorning his back now, but Murtagh already knows all of this, simply because of how hard it hurt when he received the cut, because it took him so many weeks to get up without biting back tears.

So he’s barely hearing what the magician is telling him, and instead he focuses most of his attention on the King. He never met the man before, and the legends make him scarier than he seems there, making time for the son of his best subject (friend?). When the other man finally leaves, Galbatorix doesn’t immediately follow him, instead stepping closer to the boy and sitting next to him on the small bed. He smells like fresh air, dust and iron, and his gedwey ignasia is imprinted in his mind, like the King is establishing his superiority just by reminding him he has the fiercest dragon under his command. Just then he trembles in fear for the first time, realizing how easily he could disappear from this world if only this man wanted it. But if he did, then he won’t be alive here, in this castle in the heart of a kingdom.

So Murtagh doesn’t tremble when Galbatorix’s hand rests on the top of his head, ruffling his hair with a kindness that doesn’t fit his rough hands.

“Your father is dead, child.”

He doesn’t reply to this, but something in the man’s voice tells him that he should have. Instead, Murtagh looks at his torso, covered in bandages, remembers the source of all the absences in his life. When the King leaves, he is the man of the stories.

*******

He starts training three months later. Tornac looks like he could use his small body as a sword, and even more for that Murtagh refuses to get intimidated. He thinks of his sword and his training as the only thing standing between him and another wound like the one he already got. He works with a motivation his tutor hasn’t seen in a while, going from one weapon to another, polishing all his skills, desperate to know everything there is to know, to become the best he can be.

He doesn’t speak too much, only taking in whatever new lesson is planned, and disappearing as soon as Tornac wants to open his mouth. His sword master asks about him, notices the sneering nickname of _prince_ that accompanies the name of his student, and searches some more after him. He finds him several times, either sleeping in hay or reading in sharp corners of the servants’ wing, always trying to occupy as little space as possible, in fear he will be thrown out otherwise.

He is just a young boy, Tornac reminds himself, and starts paying more attention to him, lesson after lesson inviting him for food, until Murtagh finally gives in, following the man mumbling, but eating still so eagerly, still so happy for company. This is not a frequent occurrence, besides the summons of the king, but those are formal dinners, with cold and calculated words. Here, as soon as the second portion of his soup, with an even bigger piece of meat in it, is placed in front of him, Murtagh lets his words tumble off his tongue. How he’s scared of history repeating itself, how he cares for so little things in this world, and the precision of cold metal being one of them, how he’d like to have more peaceful time to read, without nobles trying to use him so they can get on the king’s good side, how he’d like a friend.

This is no way a child should live, and Tornac’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, and his voice, rough, but filled with warmth, is reminding Murtagh of how he dreamt his father would have been like, if not cruel and drunk and maybe in love in his own twisted ways.

Tornac teaches him of a different kind of love, and he always doubles the advice he receives from his teacher with his mother’s voice, as he can still remember it, because he aches for her presence and imagines that she would have acted the same way, if only she would have been still there. Murtagh cries rarely, but when he does nowadays, is in the arms of this man, who always brushes away his tears and never tells him to man up, because there’s nothing not manly about crying when things become too much. Murtagh sometimes takes pride in what he can do, in how fast he manages to surpass Tornac, and he likes accepting challenges from young nobles just so he can laugh at them, afterwards. His teacher is the one reminding him he is no better than the other boys if he takes pleasure in considering himself better than them.

“Let them see and understand your worth.”

*******

Galbatorix praises him at parties, refuses to see the awkward way in which he plays with the hem of his fancy shirts, somehow manages to get him to attend all of them, though he smiles in his direction more often than to anyone else, like he’s trying to say _I know, what a hassle, right?_

Murtagh knows who’s heard the most recent praises of the king by how they swarm him afterwards, trying to gain the favor of a young man, the best in the kingdom after Galbatorix himself. He notices the way young and lovely girls are pushed his way by grinning fathers, and he dances with all of them because this is what it’s expected of him, but refuses to speak with any of them, simply because they will just report back, as obedient dolls they were raised to be.

So he prefers to have lesser men leer at him, being scared of his lineage, coming from two of the most horrifying people in the kingdom, and with enough talent to make both proud. He prefers paid attacks during the night, in his own bedroom, and boys always trying to shove him down the stairs, because these are all things he can influence on his own, don’t depend on something as fickle as magic or luck.

He’s seen how both are given by the king, and he’s not sure he wants to be in the graces of Galbatorix, if they can be so easily taken back at the first mistake.

He prefers nights crying after a soothing presence, and sometimes he tricks himself into saying he does not, and then he wills himself to give one more chance to the Empire, again.

*******

He turns 18 and Galbatorix doesn’t forget the day when the promise of something better than his most beloved Forsworn came to life. He has big hopes for the man, considering how good his parents have been, and although Murtagh feels a bitter taste at having to live up to ghosts, he appreciates the stories told by the king at the dinner, of people he didn’t quite understand how to forget and forgive.

The king paints the world in beautiful shades and images that Murtagh has seen himself, during his daydreams and rebellious times, and there is a promise of many wonderful things, if he only mutters a _yes_. It is easy, really, and what pains him most is that he never learns his lessons.

Murtagh is a poor soul, wanting love and care, thriving if there is someone to take care of and someone to take care of him. He wants to get affection, trust, minimum human relationships, meaningful, and with the king smiling at him that evening it doesn’t seem as hard as he knows it to be.

Then he has to kill because he is ordered to, and he prefers the alternative of getting killed than going all out with this terrible, terrible plan. He doesn’t tell any of his few friends in the palace, but he doesn’t question Tornac’s presence at his side, unannounced, but steady and anchoring him with the rightness of his decision.

But fate has a cruel sense of humor, and having the only person knowing him well enough to predict his actions fall at his side, Murtagh feels like he already failed anyway.

***

For days, Murtagh is a ghost. Later on, he will be called _a shadow of a shadow_ , but his old friend thinks this already of him, just because of his grief, and not his incapacity in what a mad king wants of him. He sits in a bed, staring at a wall for hours, not touching his food, not even flinching when the door is slammed to the wall, his sword forgotten at his side, his clothes still sporting dried blood. He mourns for the one he called a father, he mourns for the soldiers that died at his hand, whose names he never knew, and who are mourned by someone just as badly as he does Tornac.

Then this lethargy turns to frenzy, as he exercises everything he can remember Tornac teaching him, willing his body to learn it mechanically, by doing the moves over and over again, not wanting to lose anything that he can have from the man.

His friend watches over him, always silent, bringing him news from the outside, and when there’s no hope, each day passes hardening Murtagh a little bit more. A decision is already made, of creating his own path and refusing to have only two equally disliked choices. By the time he leaves for the Dragon Rider, he’s already thrown his regrets, for fear he will never have gone off continuing living otherwise.

*******

Both Murtagh and Eragon had fathers dying on them. For the first, it’s been a while, his wound scarred and his own skin thicker against mere pain. But he can hear Eragon at night, because when he doesn’t dream of elves that need his help, he’s plagued by nightmares replaying the death of his first tutor, of the one who’s been like a father and understood both him and Saphira better than anyone else will do for a long while. The dragon lets out whines, maybe she, too, can feel the same hollow pain in her chest, maybe she, too, is having nightmares, even more vivid ones thanks to simply her way of being.

When this happens, Murtagh stays awake, his sword in his lap and eyes fixed on the fire, stew being cooked, so that when they wake up, gasping and horrified, there’s something warm to get them feel more alive than the dead they’re dreaming of, and something to do so they won’t have to give explanations to a stranger that feels weirdly close.

When he is too tired to keep his eyes open, as Eragon fights through nightmares and more cries for aid, he feels Saphira’s gentle tug on his mind, never pressing against his defenses, just a small push to get him back to reality, and his hand resting against her leg is met with purrs of acceptance.

Eragon talks to him about everything he thinks he is able to understand, though in the process he’s wildly underestimating Murtagh. But it’s his fault, too, for never telling him more than his name and showing some of his skills, so he just listens to magic lessons that don’t quite apply to him, yet, and dreams of a deeply pained elf on his own, though it might just be his own imagination playing games on him.

But he knows for sure that, the first time he flies on a dragon’s back, in aid of this weird friend he managed to make, he feels more alive than he did for months before.

*******

When he kills again, his mind is blank. He thinks, dumbly, that maybe he shouldn’t have left the palace after all, if it’s so easy to take a life, if he only tried to avoid this numbness that it’s not that bad, after all.

But Eragon can barely stand living with him afterwards, questioning the morals of this road comrade, and Murtagh remembers. He left because he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself otherwise, but he got to the same result after all.

He kills, as many times as needed, and in the face of the animalistic fear of dying on his own, he enters a new world, that he doesn’t want to believe he chose.

*******

The freedom of his thoughts is the only thing that he always had, and he refuses stubbornly to let anyone else step into his mind. Even when he is recognized, and this might give him a better comfort or a chance to clean misunderstandings, his own name. He sits, tight lipped, in a cell in Tronjheim, reading stories that the Empire has long since forgotten, learning about the peoples holding him captive.

Murtagh is surprised when instead of the usual Varden coming to visit him, he has the leader’s daughter in front of him, holding several books under her arm and a smile on her face. He moves aside, allowing her enough space to sit next to him, and she does so without showing the smallest hint of fear or disgust.

“I know who you are,” she says, fingers hovering above the title of a book, hair covering her face so he can’t see her expression.

“I didn’t choose who to be born of.”

His voice is bitter and he can feel a shiver running across the scar on his back. He doesn’t know what she wants and he is not sure he wants to find out. Then, she looks him directly in the eyes, a determination hard to conceal on her face and he’s taken aback.

“I am not going to judge you by it, even if everyone else does it. I doubt you would have helped Eragon and Arya if you lived up to your father’s reputation.”

He doesn’t reply, just stares at this girl who so easily threw away the suspicion of her people, who so easily made her own decision and stuck to it. She already feels like a queen in front of him, and maybe with someone like this, the Empire is neither totally destroyed, neither lost.

Nasuada changes the subject almost instantly, shoving book after book into his hands, recommending him her favorite chapters. She comes back, as often as she can between her duties, and they spend hours with heads leaned over the same book, discussing legends, sharing their knowledge.

She leaves him with a smile on his lips, when he though he’ll never feel one again, when she thought he’ll never show her such a side of him.

*******

 It’s weird to see the elf he’s seen as only that close to death preparing for the battle. He only has to look once at the way she holds her body, to know he’d lose in a fight with her, and Arya acknowledges his presence and help in her saving with only a slight nod, though Murtagh feels it means much, much more.

When Ajihad replies in the same way to his sword skills and want to protect even this temporary place, there’s something starting to bloom in his heart: acceptance.

*******

That is trampled the moment he is dragged down to Galbatorix, to a king who now doesn’t show his friendship, but his torture, who doesn’t lie between smiles anymore, but throws hard truth after hard truth in his face.

Murtagh knows the unkindness of the world. It made sure he’ll feel it every breathing second of his life, and as he lays in chains, body bleeding and broken, mind scattered, he ties his thoughts to a single idea: his brother has it better than him, always had. Their mother wanted him instead, decided her younger son is more worthy of her love and of safety than the small child in care of the cruelest man in the kingdom. His father’s name is not spoken only in hushed tones, afraid to wake up a vengeful ghost, is not thrown in his face like the only thing that matters, that will make him. He probably doesn’t have to go through torture for simply deciding what he wants to do, for allowing himself to be human. Murtagh simply failed at proving himself a child worthy of enough love not to end him in a cell, at eighteen.

His own pained childhood makes him give up in front of Galbatorix’s torture, simply because his dragon is now a child on his own, and he has to taste the same pain that he did. So he opens his mouth, says words in a language he can’t understand, hiding his hand, because he doesn’t want to look at the sign naming him a Rider, feeling unworthy to bear it.

Galbatorix leaves them after he got what he wants, and Murtagh lays on the cold tiles, hugging the small and frail body of Thorn in his arms, choking back sob after sob, _sorry_ after _sorry_.

 _We have each other now_. Thorn’s touch at his mind is familiar, and he opens up in front of him like it’s the only thing he learnt to do since being born.

“We only have each other now.”

*******

Thorn continues to grow, well-fed now that they are all caught up in Galbatorix’s webs, slaves to the will of a crazy man. Murtagh refuses to go too far-away from the dragon, now more afraid than ever, for he has this new friend to take care of, as well. Thorn acts like a small child, and Murtagh can almost see him pout whenever he sees him following him so diligently. He takes pleasure in scaring the cattle, in burning the capes of nobles who get too close for his liking. Murtagh reads to him too, sitting under the warm sun during afternoons, sharing some of the world Thorn is more than willing to learn about. They fall asleep curled together; at first him fitting in the arms of his Rider, and later on, his Rider resting on his belly, his leg.

Murtagh has nightmares sometimes. They’re not often, but he saw already how this can affect the dragon as well. Thorn waits for him to wake, humming to calm down his fast-beating heart, and in the middle of the night, they play with what-ifs and dreams of better times. Thorn doesn’t promise him it will be better, because he’s young, but still wise, and he knows better than to promise something that he is not sure he can give. He instead walks around Murtagh’s memories, soothing where he can, always reminding him he is worthy enough to be his Rider, and that’s more than thousands of others can say.

That’s when Murtagh smiles, when he realizes the importance of this dragon in his life, and a different kind of love overwhelms him every time he sees the shades of red Thorn’s scales are.

*******

He fights, because he doesn’t have any other choice. He kills some so he doesn’t have to kill others. He feels the pull towards these devoted people as strongly as he feels the one towards an unwanted oath. He spares Eragon’s life, because it’s the only type of defiance he still has in him, because he is the hero of a new world, and Murtagh prefers the lesser bad, being punished by Galbatorix again, than making the king the winner of a war that just started.

But he doesn’t kid himself, and doesn’t allow Thorn to tell him otherwise either: he is not a good person. He lets more and more power swallow him whole, relishes in what he can do to pay back the world for everything it so fiercely inflicted upon him.

He fights some more, kills some more and lets discussions flow between him and a half-brother he doesn’t know how to know, accepts the hope given to him with the greed of the one who wants everything that can be given to him, everything that he can take.

*******

He has Zar’roc in his hands, but he barely knows what to do with it. He’s one step closer to being just like his father, and only Thorn’s voice in his head takes him back to reality, where he is just a pawn in a larger game, and not a Forsworn by choice. But for Galbatorix he’s just a tool, just the one being used to seep fear in the hearts of men. He thinks sometimes how life would have been if he stayed with the Vardens, no traitors to bring him back to a world he never missed. Well, they will still hate him because of his name, will still keep their trust to themselves and not allowing him to join them. And there would be no Thorn at his side, if he was fighting the war from another side instead. So he swallows his regrets, presses a hand against the forehead of the dragon, refusing to worry Thorn any more, warding off the thoughts where he doesn’t have this.

Yet, how powerless he is it’s obvious only in the moment when someone else takes control over his body, killing a person Murtagh hoped, all through his fight, that will say to him _maybe I would have liked you as a student, too._ He mourns after that elf Rider all through his way back, thinking of him as a worthy opponent and the biggest what-if of his life. He doesn’t even have the power to feel bitter against fate anymore, because if one of them two brothers has to be better, has to learn and have support all through the war, that someone is Eragon. Eragon is more important than him to the greater scheme of things. If one of them has to survive, it must be Eragon, not him.

*******

He thought change will bring them freedom, but Murtagh wakes up feeling different every day, and yet nothing changes. It takes more time to change who you are at your core, to change the essence of your being, and time is the only thing Murtagh feels he doesn’t have.

*******

He wants her to live. This is the first thought that passes through his mind the moment he hears of Galbatorix’s plans to kill the Varden’s head. He wants her to live, even if scarred, turned into pieces so small that they will never fit again, even if angry and so full of rage she will never look him in the eyes.

So he takes her in this terrible, terrible world he has lived in for all his life, and all he can do is hope he can ease the flames of the hell he puts her through. He isn’t brave enough to do more than promise her there is a plan to help her, and Nasuada believes him. He tells her of his childhood, sometimes raging, cursing the world and all the humans, and Nasuada cries for him. Sometimes he’s crying, and she can only hold his hand, pet his hair. He is silent sometimes, just working on his magic, and that’s when Nasuada tells him of her tortures, of the wonderful dreams that her heart thinks of in secret, because she knows he went through this as well, he had the same kind of images stuck in his mind for nights afterwards too, by the way he touches her, so familiar to what she has in her head.

She never puts him down with her words, she never questions any of his choices, besides one:

“Why?”

Murtagh cannot give her the answer she wants. Maybe years and years of feeling unworthy have turned him into such. And maybe it will take him just as much to recover.

“You know why.”

Nasuada knows, because she also knows this man always tries his best.

*******

His plans, his chance to try and regain some of the respect he never had, are all messed up when Eragon acts earlier than he does. He has to fight again; he has to hear all over again the righteous talk of everyone around him who think themselves better for starting off greater in life. This is the time when he is called _the shadow of a shadow_ , failing to reach the expectations of all those who know him. Murtagh knows this already, he still learns to live with the knowledge of all his failings, and yet there’s this small riot burning inside his bones, there’s this wish to prove the world wrong.

He loses, but it is a win on its own. He loses because he decides so, and not because of any of his shortcomings, and then, that moment, he feels the change in the air, on his tongue, as he does magic stronger than ever before, tying word after word together with his brother, fighting the one who refused him any of the lives he hoped for.

Galbatorix dies, and yet the effects he has on Murtagh and Thorn do not.

*******

“You saved the world,” he tells the best of all men, his own brother, Eragon, after the fight is over and he’s ready to start a deep, personal fight on his own, but not alone, Thorn forever at his side.

“We saved the world, brother.”

Eragon is selfless and flawless as he recently learnt to be, clasping Murtagh’s hand and already knowing this might be a final goodbye, if the other man so wishes. Murtagh doesn’t say no, and doesn’t say yes, and accepts the hug with the easiness he did his mother’s embraces.

Arya thanks him, though no word is spoken. She just lets a passing touch against Thorn’s scales, a tired smile adorning her lips when looking at him. This way, he knows she doesn’t hold a grudge. Maybe she, the oldest out of them all, knows better what a wrong twist of destiny makes people turn into.

Nasuada wants to get him in her hold and never let him go, though she knows better that he needs this more than he needs love, more than he needs the forgiveness of an entire empire. So she brushes her lips just that close to his mouth, raising her head so high afterwards, that even he wants to lower.

Eragon becomes a hero that day, with enough titles to not fit on a whole paper. Arya becomes a future Rider and future ruler. Nasuada becomes queen. And Murtagh becomes lost.

*******

He first visits Tornac’s grave. He goes at night, when the people rebuilding their lives have gone to rest, and he sits there mourning, telling Thorn’s stories of his master, of this man who has been more of a father than the one he shares his blood with. The dragon has heard them once before, has seen parts of his life alongside this person, but he accepts it eagerly, because every line out of Murtagh’s mouth means more peace in his heart.

 _He would have been very proud_ , Thorn tells him, and it’s the first night Murtagh cries after everything ended.

He disappears in the mountains afterwards, every morning doing trust jumps with Thorn, letting himself fall from the highest crest, shouting of joy when his dragon is there to catch him, only to drop him afterwards in cold lakes or soft soil, laugh bubbling up inside him. Thorn roars every evening, birds flying, scared, against the bloodied sky, and Murtagh looks at it each passing day until he doesn’t think of all the deathly blows he sent upon people, until it only makes him want to go and see more and more of what the world has to offer.

Thorn heals quicker and waits, patiently, for his Rider to catch up. Murtagh never disappoints, and when they leave after months of living in the wild, there’s a determined gleam in his eyes, and Thorn shouts their returning for all miles and miles away to know.

He goes to the dwarfs then, starting with the easiest task at hand. They’re met with death threats and weapons at his throat, arrows pointed at Thorn, who only shows his teeth.

“You’re searching for your death, traitor,” Orik says when he sees him, though he clasps his hand friendly enough, but hard enough to leave a bruise as well.

Murtagh drops at his feet, few dwarfs gasping in surprise, and he apologizes. Orik is more surprised when he actually says everything he has to say in his own language, and he’s reminded that this human spent enough time in his realm to learn a thing or two. He doesn’t accept his apologies, not that Murtagh really expected him to, but he doesn’t threaten them either. Only after they eat that evening, everyone away from their table, does the dwarf says what he feels as a being with feelings, and not the king of some nation.

“It was war. Some die and some live. I hate that it had to be Hrothgar, but if we will all muse over all the lost lives, we will never be able to move forward.”

It’s forgiveness in its own way, and Murtagh leaves the next day even before the sun is up, offerings left in front of all the statues of the dwarfs’ gods.

He leaves for Du Weldenvarden, Thorn’s ache brighter than his this time. They lost most of who they are in a battle that was hardly fought by their own conscience, and Arya doesn’t need any explanations to allow them inside the forest, this time a dragon at her side, grown and matching the forest oh so well.

Thorn’s joy is burning at Murtagh’s mind, and he listens just half attentive to the war stories the young dragon asks for. Arya takes them to the grave they want to visit, and when Murtagh drops to his feet in front of the place where a Rider and a dragon finally found their rest, her hand is at his shoulder the next moment. He stays there for two days, unmoving, apologizing so hard and strongly that the trees around him start leaning over his head, trying to comfort. When he leaves, his steps are faster, the smell of pines always stuck to his skin, and Thorn stops feeling the ghost of a tail he doesn’t have anymore. The elves might not have forgiven him, but the forest did. To the earth, he is not a traitor, but a survivor.

*******

He hears of Eragon’s departure, of this place he tries his best to build up for better Riders. He thinks sometimes of joining him, of going to a far-away island and leaving all behind, just faint magic the only connection between him and the world. He cannot do this, but when he is summoned, he answers the call by appearing in front of the rulers of all nations.

He is still a Rider, even if a wanderer, and they only ask of him for a few lessons, dropped by in-between his travels, for young men and women trying to change the world one magical word, one flight at a time. He agrees, because he knows what contact with other dragons means for Thorn, and what contact with other people might mean for him.

It gives him a purpose. Seeing them all young Riders, trying their best, eyes glinting when watching a living legend in front of them, gives him hope. Knowing he will sometimes always turn back to them, and them to him, anchors him.

*******

He spends more time in some places, less in others, and the leaders of the nations still try to win him by their side, though one’s motives might be more than political.

“It’d be a pleasure to have you here,” Nasuada says as she strolls through huge, empty and cold corridors, not once looking back, sure he will simply follow her wherever she’ll go. Murtagh has to bite down the impulse to fall at her heels and swear eternal obedience to her, her robes the color of Thorn’s scales.

“I can’t.”

There’s no _yet_ , there’s no misleading hope behind his words. Nasuada doesn’t ask why, because he can find thousands of reasons why he is not worthy of what she asks of him, and she accepts it with stopped steps, fingers curled in her dress and a sigh.

“Your worth is not only yours to determine.” Thorn’s similar words resound in his head, and he hates how he knows they’re both the wisest people he knows, and they’re always right. But he never falters in his decision. She waits, nonetheless.

He disappears, even so. But Nasuada has waited to be what she is today even from before she was born, and patience she practices every single day with her counselors and ambassadors, with her own friends. She smiles, only the shadows to see her, eats up her wishes, continues to rule as she always does, and waits.

*******

He sends presents to Eragon sometimes: a rare species of plant he’s sure Saphira would like, a nice small stone sculpture for him to add to the clutter his room is sure to be. It’s always through students going to learn from the actual master, and after a while, his brother stops hoping to see him among them, too.

For Murtagh it's still hard to find a place where he belongs, when he feels like he’s made up of so many different people, so many different actions, that he can’t even begin to take them apart. He gives up on teaching at some point, his scarce appearances turning into none at all, and there are muffled whispers from everyone who keeps an eye out for such happenings.

He leaves, moving from place to place, and yet, his favorite to come back to is always his cousin’s house. Because Roran scruffs his beard, like he’s confused by him, every single time, but opens the door for him anyway. Katrina runs down the stairs to hug him, and their daughter is the most stunning being he ever saw after his own child, a dragon, and the one he dreams of having as a wife, a queen.

Ismira finds out how the sky tastes like before she learns her first song. Roran and Katrina spoil Thorn, allowing him to hunt through the nearby forests all day, and giving Murtagh the opportunity to get a feel of what it is to be part of a community, working equally with all the men of Carvahall. He likes the quiet strength of these people, their determination to go on with their lives no matter what, to have a roof above their head and happy children around them, an honest mean of earning their money.  

There are times when Murtagh wants to stay here, with these people, for the rest of his life, and then there’s a hollow feeling of want in his chest, and this new-found family is all there to pat his back, as he continues on with his quest of simply finding himself.

*******

He meets Arya, sometimes, as they fly from place to place, her as a queen and teacher to a young generation of Riders, with no wars and scars, visible or not, adorning their beings, and himself as the lost one out of them all who fought, the one still trying to find a purpose behind fights both lost and won, behind actions wished, but not done. They strike up conversations, dancing around important topics, like they’re just mere acquaintances, and not comrades of war, and only after they wind up in an old bar, dragons passing riddles and always paying an attentive ear to their humans’ discussion, they loosen their tongues. They stagger in a booth, shoulders pressed together, talking more of a young boy who isn’t on their realms anymore, than anything else. But she does ask him once:

“Why did you choose to betray so many?”

Murtagh feels the soft tug of Thorn’s thoughts at his mind, feels the peace that comes from having this connection, and he answers as he looks through the open door at the two dragons snorting fires at each other.

“Because then I would have betrayed the only one who trusts me completely.”

Arya understands, her face weirdly exposed and intensely sad. She tastes her own kind of betrayal on her tongue, remembering better parts of her own soul who died to protect her and a mission they believed in as strongly as Murtagh believes in Thorn.

She doesn’t ask him a second time.

*******

Slowly, words of a red Rider travel through the whole of Alagaesia. It starts with traveling merchants, who speak of a man who doesn’t shy from doing anything to help, even with harsh words thrown at his face, or no gratitude to be shown afterwards. The noble ladies and men meet in salons, whispering of a handsome Rider who does the ancient work of protecting the realm, all of it and in any form. Rulers come in Nasuada’s meeting room, and speak of a well-mannered dragon with a Rider who is ready to do anything to earn the acceptance of those he has hurt.

Slowly, he’s not a bringer of blood and horror, but of hope and help. He doesn’t notice the change until a child comes up to him, tells him he’s been born the year when he was freed, and hands him flowers.

He leaves them on Nasuada’s bedroom table and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, the Universe just needs to give this man a break. I've been starting this fic since months ago, and I am so happy to see it finally reaching an end. It turned out nicer than I thought, and I honestly love Murtagh so much, I just want him happy and having everything he hopes for. Also, I honestly think all taking part in the war will just slowly become really good friends, supporting each other so they won't have to go through the horrors of fighting again; and especially Arya and Murtagh, because, at least to me, they're quite similar in how they deal with their own feelings.  
> And last, I really hope I did justice to my favorite character, to my favorite book series. It's always such an honor to write fanfiction for works that mean so, so much to me.
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
